HP/SPN, Sam Winchester is sorted into Hufflepuff. No one saw that coming.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Azazel looked at Ruby, surprise clear in his eyes. “Hufflepuff?! The destined Disciple of our Lord, the one boy that has the power to revive him, has been sorted into Huffepuff?!”
“Maybe we have the wrong prophecy?” Ruby suggested, wincing. She knew that when Azazel would be notified of this… rather inconvenient situation, he wouldn’t be happy. She just hoped this time he wouldn’t start throwing Avada Kedavra around. “Or maybe we got it wrong? Maybe it isn’t about Samuel Winchester? There’s this Potter boy, sire, and some of the legends…”
“Hasn’t his brother been sorted into Gryffindor?” Azazel asked coldly. In that second Ruby knew that suggesting they might have done a mistake, was just that – a mistake. A big one.
“Yes, he has, sire,” she answered, bowing low.
“Hasn’t his mother died, protecting him with her life? Isn’t his father the descendant of that goodie-doer Michael, the mortal enemy of our Lord? Isn’t all of itconsistent with the Prophecy?” Azazel continued, his voice rising with every word.
“Yes, sire,” Ruby said, bowing even lower.
She wasn’t surprised when Crucio hit her.
“Hufflepuff?” Zachariah frowned. “Are you sure, Castiel?”
“Yes,” Castiel nodded, his face solemn. “Dean Winchester has been sorted into Gryffindor, but his brother, Samuel Winchester, was assigned to Huffepuff intead of Slytherin, as we expected.”
“You want to tell me than the next Dark Wizard is supposed to come from Huffepuff? If I were in Azazel’s shoes, I’d die of embarrassment right about now! A Hufflepuff leading an army of Slytherins? I’d like to see that. I’d like to see them listening to him! How would he go about defeating us? Sending us a polite letter in which he’d ask us to surrender?” Zachariah started laughing, but Castiel knew he shouldn’t join him. Not to mention that he didn’t find the whole situation funny; if they were wrong about Samuel, then maybe Dean Winchester wasn’t the one to be able to bring Michael back.
Of course he didn’t dare to say it out loud.
“Send for Anna and Uriel. We have to check the Prophecy, see if through the ages its words have been tinkered with.”
Castiel nodded. “As you wish. Should we stop the surveillance of the Winchester boys?”
“No. But then… what is the name of the other boy? Ploter? Sloter?”
“Yes. Potter. Put him under surveillance too.”
“Hufflepuff?! Really, Sammy?! Hufflepuff?! Have you ever heard about a Winchester that wouldn't be assigned to Gryffindor?!”
“I’m sorry, Dean, I really am, but what could I do? I put the hat on my head and there it was, shouting “Huffepuff!” as if its life depended on it! I’m really, really sorry!” Sam cried, his eyes wide and a little more shiny than usually. Dean stopped, knowing what it meant. “I’m not really angry, Sammy,” he said softly, kneeling down and hugging his little brother. “I’m really not. It’s just… I have been here on my own for 5 years and I’ve really been looking forward to having you near, ya know?”
“I’ve missed you too,” Sam whispered, sniffling. Dean smiled; tear-crisis averted.
“So – want me to show you around the castle before you have to go to your dorm?”
“Shouldn’t I be there already?” Sam asked, looking up at Dean with an expression that clearly said he didn’t want to go.
“Nah, I’ve talked to your prefect. He still owes me for our last game; he won’t cause you any problems. So. Any questions about the castle?”
“That hat! Is it really alive?” Sam asked, bouncing on his feet with excitement. “Someone at my table said so, but it’s a hat and hats can’t be alive, right? But then it’s talking and…” Dean shook his head, smiling, and patted Sam’s head. He really missed him, even that babbling of his. It was great to finally have him there with him.
Even if the Weasley twins would never let him live down having his brother assigned to Hufflepuff, especially with Ron being assigned to Gryffindor.
The Mummy, Cast (Rick/Evie), Thanksgiving in Cairo
Thanksgiving in Cairo wasn't anything like the Thanksgiving back home. There was no bickering of uncle Vern, complaining about the cold in his bones, no rush his mother seemed to revel in, no fights about who made better filling, who should take care of baking the turkey, who was supposed to make the gravy, and if the table in the dining room was big enough for everyone, or the one from the attic should be brought down too.
He missed that. That rush, noise created by the children, easy bickering, comfortable atmosphere at the table.
And his mother's cranberry sauce.
But different didn't mean worse. Sitting at the table with Evie and Jonathan, bowls full of steaming, spicy Egyptian food in front of him (Evie insisted on cooking everything herself, which meant that in the end Rick and Jonathan had to run to the nearest restaurant to buy something or they wouldn't have anything to eat), looking at Evie's smile and listening to Jonathan rambling about some manuscript, he had to admit he was happy. A lot had happened in the last year, not everything of it good, and his life had changed significantly, but it was all for the better.
He was thankful for that.
And wasn't that what Thanksgiving was about?